The Saint-Florentin Murders (27 page)

Nicolas looked closely at the undershirt the surgeon had just taken off the corpse. Something was nagging at him. He cursed his own forgetfulness. It drove out any good ideas he had and, in his job, that was tantamount to a sin. He felt in the bottom of his pocket for his little black notebook, pulled it out, and looked through it with a kind of rage. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? When Lenoir had burdened him with all those
assignments
to such a point that it had even occurred to him that it was a deliberate attempt to thwart his investigation, one of them had been to track down two young girls who had run away from Brussels. He looked at the page where he had noted their descriptions. ‘The first … smallpox … blue eyes, black eyebrows.’ And further on – and this was what had unconsciously stirred his memory – ‘Undershirt … blue and grey striped satin.’ He glanced at the soiled, bloodstained garment. It exactly matched the description he had written down.

‘Guillaume,’ he said, ‘do you see any marks of smallpox on the face?’

‘Of course,’ replied Semacgus. ‘I told you that back on the island. Blue eyes, black eyebrows and marks of smallpox. For the rest …’ He poured water over his arms and hands from an earthenware jug. ‘The poor girl wasn’t a courtesan. She hadn’t even been a woman for long … I mean she’d recently been deflowered, and probably raped several times, from the front and the rear. A sad business!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d swear it before a judge, without any qualms.’

‘Time of death?’

‘That’s harder to establish. Taking a number of factors into account – the night temperature, the heat given off by a heap of decomposing animal flesh – I estimate the probable time of death at about two in the morning. Let’s say between one and two.’

‘We know that the wagon arrived on Île des Cygnes at about three … We need to know where it was about two, or even a little earlier.’

He was thinking hard, but Semacgus, with an expression of barely suppressed jubilation on his broad, ruddy face, interrupted this exercise.

‘That’s not all, Nicolas. There’s another observation I’ve made, I don’t know how important it is, but I’m sure you’ll find it intriguing. Before she died, the victim was immersed in a soapy solution, which dried as it evaporated. You just have to wet the skin to notice it. You can still smell the scent a bit.’

‘You’ll need to be a little clearer than that, Guillaume. Don’t forget you’re talking to someone who’s had a bit of a shock and spent last night …’

He broke off, noticing Semacgus’s mocking look. He felt his face go red.

‘The girl took a bath,’ said the surgeon. ‘A scented bath, to boot!’

‘I’ll refrain from drawing any conclusion from that for the time being. I’ll just remark that, at every stage in this case, water is never very far away. The Saint-Florentin mansion, close to the Seine. Rue de Glatigny, on the banks of the Cité. And, finally, Île des Cygnes. We’re never far from the river!’

‘Which makes it all the more interesting to find out where the wagon gained its deadly load.’

‘Any other observations?’

‘One last one. I found a fragment of nail with some skin attached. The attacker must have grabbed hold of the victim’s garment during the struggle. Here it is, for what it’s worth. I don’t suppose it’ll help you find the person it belongs to, but who knows? It’s just possible it may be of use to you …’

Nicolas put the item inside a folded sheet of his black notebook. ‘You haven’t mentioned this,’ he said, ‘but I assume that the murder weapon—’

‘Is indeed the artificial hand. At least, the plaster cast fits the wound. There’s no doubt about it. What are you going to do now?’

‘I’ve put off meeting the major-domo’s in-laws for too long. After that, I’m going to Bicêtre to see what I can find out about the rejected suitor of the first victim, Marguerite Pindron.’

Deep in thought, they went back up to the duty office, where they were greeted by Old Marie, the usher, who, having followed Nicolas’s career from the beginning, was delighted that things were getting back to normal for him. He handed him a small folded note on which he immediately recognised the three sardines of Monsieur de Sartine’s coat of arms. The message was a brief one: ‘Monsieur Bourdier, the man I spoke to you about, is living with his family in a furnished room in Rue Galante.’

Nicolas, who always kept spare clothes and clean linen in a cubbyhole, changed and asked Old Marie to take his fine grey coat to the cleaner.

‘Marie,’ he said, ‘I’m a bit short of men. Could you do me a service? I know you’re perfectly capable.’

‘By God, I’d jump out of the window for you! Problem is, with my damned aches and pains, I’d find it hard to climb up onto the sill!’

‘I’m not asking that much,’ said Nicolas with a laugh. ‘I’ll send you a box of camphorated beaver fat that Monsieur de Noblecourt swears by. Aren’t you bored in your cage?’

‘Of course, Monsieur Nicolas! At least I have my pipe and my cordial. Apart from that, I’m bored stiff.’

‘All right, then. What would you say to searching in the register of foreigners for a middle-aged Englishman, of medium height and with a definite paunch? He’s wearing tinted folding glasses and speaks quite good French. I’d also quite like to have a list of foreigners staying in furnished hotels in Paris and Versailles.’

‘It would be very careless of him to always frequent such conspicuous establishments,’ said Semacgus.

‘Lodging with the locals would be even more so. It’s possible he’s staying with the British ambassador. Lord Ashbury is a clever man. We’ll see … So, Marie, is that all right with you?’

‘I’ll go and look at the registers straight away.’

Nicolas handed him a few
louis
.

‘That’s far too much,’ said the usher, stunned.

‘It’s to pay the cleaner. Keep the change for tobacco and cordial.’

He set off at top speed.

‘You’re good, I’ll give you that,’ said Semacgus. ‘Always a promise of scraps from the table.’

‘I don’t have to try too hard. He’s a good man, and a Breton, to boot.
Evit ur baoninqenn, kant modigenn!
“For a little pain, a hundred pleasures,” as they say where we come from. I’m going to visit the Duchamplans in Rue Christine. Will you come with me? I don’t have much time, so we’ll have to skip lunch. We can dine together this evening, we’ll have plenty of time then …’

Semacgus was grimacing at the thought of this sacrifice.

‘Would you dare to abandon a patient?’ joked Nicolas. ‘Imagine if I failed in my duty—’

‘You’re beating down my defences. All right then, I’ll fast in your honour. This evening, you’ll all be my guests.’

The surgeon’s carriage was waiting for them at the entrance. Nicolas suddenly remembered to thank the coachman, who, by his presence of mind, had probably saved his life. The man in question, blushing with emotion, told them that he had taken advantage of their absence to buy, from one of those stalls which cluttered the square all the way to the Apport-Paris, a basket of little hot pies from Champagne and two bottles of simple wine. He had guessed that the gentlemen, too absorbed in their affairs, were going to have to tighten their belts. Both congratulated him on his initiative, and Nicolas again got rid of a few extra
écus
.

Assuaging their raging hunger, they crossed the Seine and soon reached Rue Christine, which was situated between Rue des Grands-Augustins and Rue Dauphine. This tranquil street was full of large bourgeois houses. The Duchamplan house was not out of place here, with its austere facade devoid of excessive decoration, apart from a mascaron depicting the face of a chubby Triton. Six floors including the attic, noted Nicolas. The three upper floors appeared, from certain aspects, to be given over to
furnished rooms. They went through the carriage entrance. The caretaker was sitting on a stool with the straw removed, shelling beans. He told them that Monsieur Duchamplan the elder lived on the first and second floors, and Monsieur Duchamplan the younger on the mezzanine. But the latter was not in at the moment; in fact, he had not been in for several days. There was nothing to explain this absence, which appeared to worry his brother greatly. To the left of the courtyard was an impressive flight of stairs, the state of which indicated that it was for the exclusive use of the owner, while everyone else used a more modest staircase, as did the servants, the suppliers, the carriers of water and wood …

Nicolas remarked to Semacgus that chance remained the most constant element in investigations, and that you often discovered things when you were least expecting to. It would be useful to speak a bit more to such a talkative character as that caretaker. Having rung the bell-pull, they waited until a middle-aged manservant opened the door. Nicolas asked to see the master of the house. A few minutes later, the man himself appeared.

From the first, Nicolas found it hard to define his appearance. He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, and wore a black, rather old-fashioned coat. He was pale, with washed-out eyes, and resembled his sister the nun, although his face was puffier. His hands, hidden beneath wide cuffs, were clasped together, as if he were trying to overcome a degree of nervousness.

‘Nicolas Le Floch, commissioner at the Châtelet. Dr Guillaume Semacgus.’

He stopped there. It was the best way to force the witness to make the next move.

‘Please come in, gentlemen.’

He admitted them into a large, richly furnished drawing room. The curtains at the windows looking out on the street were half drawn, plunging the room into relative darkness. He motioned them to take their seats in large high-backed armchairs from the previous century.

‘I’m listening, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas.

‘You’ve rather caught me on the hop, Commissioner. I’ve just learnt about the tragedy that happened at the minister’s house and my brother-in-law Missery’s wound.’

This was not getting them very far.

‘Could you tell me who informed you of these events?’

‘My sister, Hélène, who’s a nun with the Daughters of Saint Michel. But you know that, since you’ve already met her.’

This was said with a kind of bitter irony.

‘So you’re aware of the serious accusations made against your brother-in-law?’ said Nicolas.

‘I find it hard to believe that he could be capable of something so terrible. He can be violent, yes, touchy, difficult, not always very honest, much given to debauchery, but a murderer, no, I don’t really think so.’

As a connoisseur, Nicolas appreciated the man’s skill at appearing to be contemptuous of the major-domo while avoiding directly accusing him. The overall picture, though, was certainly a black one.

‘Has your relationship with him remained close?’

‘We rarely see each other.’

‘When did you see him last?’

‘At the Mass for the anniversary of my sister’s death.’

‘Do you have any joint interests? I should point out to you, before anything else, that I know all about your family affairs. Missery is in possession of your sister’s fortune – correct me if I’m wrong – and it will revert to your family if he should die.’

‘Whether he has remarried or not, Monsieur. That is quite important.’

‘I assume you’re referring to the danger represented by his passionate relationship with a chambermaid in the
Saint-Florentin
household?’

‘Precisely. Let’s be clear about this: if you’re trying to insinuate that my brother-in-law was nearly murdered on account of the coincidence of our interests, you’re making a big mistake. Didn’t you tell my sister that he was merely grazed?’

He was still expressing himself in a restrained, level-headed manner, staring straight ahead, never looking at the commissioner.

‘That’s all well and good, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas. ‘I’ve heard your answers on your joint interests with your brother-in-law, and we’ve talked about your sister’s fortune. Are you yourself involved in some occupation?’

‘I manage my money. I have a private income, and I also earn revenue from my interests in a number of companies of which I am the administrator.’

‘What companies?’

‘Aren’t you going beyond your prerogatives? I am known and protected by the Prince de Condé.’

‘Do you have a position in his household?’ asked Nicolas with a touch of sarcasm.

‘The prince and I,’ retorted Duchamplan proudly, ‘are in
partnership on a project to supply the city with water.’

‘I only know of one such project: that of the Perier brothers, supported by the Duc d’Orléans.’

The man seemed surprised by Nicolas’s knowledge. ‘You are badly informed, there are others.’

‘And are you involved in other enterprises?’

‘A transport company.’

‘And what else?’

‘I am an administrator of the royal hospital of Bicêtre.’

‘I see,’ said Nicolas. ‘I assume that covers everything. Where were you on the night of Sunday to Monday?’

‘Here, with my wife and my sister.’

‘Did you go out?’

‘Not at all. We went to bed about eleven.’

Nicolas noted that the time could be approximate. The contradiction with the sister’s declaration that she had gone to bed at ten was only a small one. Of course, she had ‘forgotten’ to mention that she had visited her family.

‘When you say “we”, are you including your brother, Eudes?’

‘My brother is a young man who has his own amusements, and we don’t interfere with them. He lives on the mezzanine, and has his own entrance.’

‘And did he come home the following day?’

‘I have no idea. He comes and goes. He’s a will-o’-the-wisp … whom I support come what may.’ His mouth tensed in a grimace that was meant to be a smile.

‘I’d like to speak to your wife,’ said Nicolas.

‘She’s gone out to pay a visit.’

The words had come out very quickly. It was better to
stop there for the moment. Nicolas was just standing up when Semacgus raised his hand.

‘With your permission, Commissioner. Monsieur Duchamplan mentioned a transport company. What kind of company?’

‘We have a fleet of cabs.’

‘One company has the monopoly on cabs in Paris. Is it that one?’